'I know,' cries Death, that at the best, I seldom am a welcome guest; But don't be captious, friend at least: I little thought you'd still be able To stump about your farm and stable; Your years have run to a great length; I wish you joy, though, of your strength!' Hold,' says the farmer, not so fast! I have been lame these four years past.'

And no great wonder,' Death replies; However, you still keep your eyes; And sure to see one's loves and friends, For legs and arms would make amends.' Perhaps,' says Dobson, so it might, But latterly I've lost my sight.'

་

This is a shocking story, faith; Yet there's some comfort still,' says Each strives your sadness to amuse; I warrant you hear all the news.'

Death:

Sir Traffic's name, so well applied, Awak'd his brother-merchant's pride; And Thrifty, who had all his life Paid utmost def'rence to his wife, Confess'd her arguments had reason; And by th' approaching summer season Draws a few hundreds from the stocks, And purchases his country box.

Some three or four miles out of town (An hour's ride will bring you down) He fixes on his choice abode, Not half a furlong from the road; And so convenient does it lay, The stages pass it every day; And theu so smug, so mighty pretty, To have a house so near the city! Take but your places at the Boar, You're set down at the very door.

Well then, suppose them fix'd at last,

LLOYD.

§ 176. The Cit's Country Box.
Vos sapere, et solos aio bene vivere, quorum
Conspicitur nitidis fundata pecunia villis. HOR.
THE wealthy cit, grown old in trade,
Now wishes for the rural shade,
And buckles to his one-horse chair
Old Dobbin, or the founder'd mare:
While wedg'd in closely by his side,
Sits Madam, his unwieldy bride,
With Jacky on a stool before 'em,
And out they jog in due decorum.
Scarce past the turnpike half a mile,
'How all the country seems to smile!'
And as they slowly jog together,

The cit commends the road and weather:
While Madam doats upon the trees,
And longs for ev'ry house she sees;
Admires its views, its situation,
And thus she opens her oration:

What signifies the loads of wealth,
Without that richest jewel, health?
Excuse the fondness of a wife,
Who doats upon your precious life!
Such ceaseless toil, such constant care,
Is more than human strength can bear:
One may observe it in your face-
Indeed, my dear, you break apace;
And nothing can your health repair,
But exercise and country air.
Sir Traffic has a house, you know,
About a mile from Cheney-row:
He's a good man, indeed, 'tis true;
But not so warm, my dear, as you:
And folks are always apt to sneer-
One would not be outdone, my dear!'

Hugging themselves in ease and clover,
With all the fuss of moving over;
Lo, a new heap of whims are bred,
And wanton in my lady's head.

Well! to be sure, it must be own'd,
It is a charming spot of ground:
So sweet a distance for a ride,
And all about so countrified;
'Twould come but to a trifling price,
To make it quite a paradise!
I cannot bear those nasty rails,
Those ugly, broken, mouldy pales:
Suppose, my dear, instead of these,
We build a railing all Chinese;
Although one hates to be expos'd,
'Tis dismal to be thus enclos'd;
One hardly any object sees-
I wish you'd fell these odious trees,
Objects continually passing by,
Were something to amuse the eye;
But to be pent within the walls,
One might as well be at St. Paul's.
Our house beholders would adore,
Was there a level lawn before,
Nothing its views to incommode,
But quite laid open to the road;
While every traveller in amaze,
Should on our little mansion gaze;
And, pointing to the choice retreat,
Cry,That's Sir Thrifty's country-seat!"
No doubt her arguments prevail,
For Madam's TASTE can never fail.
Blest age! when all men may procure
The title of a connoisseur;
When noble and ignoble herd
Are govern'd by a single word;
Though, like the royal German dames,
It bears an hundred Christian names,
As Genius, Fancy, Judgement, Gout,
Whim, Caprice, Je ne scais quoi, Virtù ;
Which appellations all describe
TASTE, and the modern tasteful tribe.

Now bricklayers, carpenters, and joiners,
With Chinese artists and designers,
Produce their schemes of alteration,
To work this wondrous reformation.

The useful dome, which secret stood, Embosom'd in the yew tree's wood, The traveller with amazement sees A temple Gothic or Chinese, With many a bell and tawdry rag on, And crested with a sprawling dragon; A wooden arch is bent astride A ditch of water, four feet wide, With angles, curves, and zig-zag lines, From Halfpenny's exact designs; In front a level lawn is seen, Without a shrub upon the green; Where taste would want its first great law, But for the skulking sly ha-ha; By whose miraculous assistance You gain a prospect two fields' distance. And now from Hyde-park Corner come The gods of Athens and of Rome. Here squabby Cupids take their places, With Venus, and the clumsy Graces; Apollo there, with aim so clever, Stretches his leaden bow for ever, And there, without the power to fly, Stands fix'd a tip-toe Mercury.

The villa thus completely grac'd,
All own that Thrifty has a taste;

And Madam's female friends and cousins,
With common-council men by dozens,
Flock every Sunday to the seat,
To stare about them and to eat.

That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose,

And the Nose was as plainly intended for
them.

Then shifting his side, as the lawyer knows how,
He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes;
But what were the arguments few people know,
For the world did not think they were equal-
ly wise.

So his lordship decreed, with a grave solemn tone,

Decisive and clear, without one if or butThat whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, By day-light or candle-light-Eyes should be shut.

$178. On the Birth-Day of Shakspeare. A Canto. Taken from his Works. BERENGER. Natura lapsa valere, et mentis viribus excitari, et quasi quodam divino spiritu afflari.

-PEACE to this meeting!

Joy and fair time, health and good wishes:
Now, worthy friends, the cause why we are met,
Is in celebration of the day that gave
Immortal Shakspeare to this favor'd isle,
Which from the prime creation e'er she fram'd.
The most replenished sweet work of nature,
O thou divinest Nature! how thyself thou
blazon'st

In this thy son! form'd in thy prodigality,
To hold thy mirror up, and give the time
Its very form and pressure! When he speaks
Each aged ear plays truant at his tales,
And younger hearings are quite ravished,
So voluble is his discourse-gentle
As Zephyr blowing beneath the violet,
Not wagging its sweet head-yet as rough
(His noble blood enchaf'd) as the rude wind,
That by the top doth take the mountain pine
And make him stoop to th' vale-'Tis wonder-

ful

That an invisible instinct should frame him

To loyalty, unlearn'd; honor, untaught;
That wildly grows in him, but yields a crop,
Civility, not seen in others; knowledge
How noble in faculty! infinite in reason!
As if it had been sown. What a piece of work!
A combination and a form indeed,
Where every god did seem to set his seal!
Heaven has him now-yet let our idolatrous
Still sanctify his relics; and this day [fancy
Stand aye distinguish'd in the kalendar
To the last syllable of recorded time:
We ne'er shall look upon his like again.
For, if we take him but for all in all,

$179. On the Invention of Letters. TELL me what Genius did the art invent, Who first the secret how to colour sound, The lively image of the voice to paint; And to give shape to reason, wisely found;

Th' unwilling poet keep his piece nine years. For who would bear the impatient thirst of fame,

The pride of conscious merit, and, 'bove all,
The tedious importunity of friends,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare inkhorn? Who would fardels
bear,

To groan and sweat under a load of wit,
But that the tread of sweet Parnassus' hill
(That undiscover'd country, with whose bays
Few travellers return) puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear to live unknown,
Than run the hazard to be known and damn'd.
Thus critics do make cowards of us all;
And thus the healthful face of many a poem
Is sicklied o'er with a pale manuscript;
And enterprises of great fire and spirit
With this regard from Dodsley turn away,
And lose the name of Authors.

$ 185. To the Memory of George Lewis Langton, Esq. who died on his Travels to Rome. SHIPLEY.

LANGTON, dear partner of my soul,
Accept what pious passion meditates
To grace thy fate. Sad memory,
And grateful love and impotent regret,
Shall wake to paint thy gentle mind,
The wise good-nature, friendship delicate;
In secret converse, native mirth
And sprightly fancy, sweet artificer

Of social pleasure; nor forgot

The noble thirst of knowledge and fair fame That led thee far through foreign climes Inquisitive, but chief the pleasant banks Of Tiber, ever-honor'd stream, Detain'd thee visiting the last remains Of ancient art; fair forms exact In sculpture, columns, and the mould'ring bulk Of theatres. In deep thought wrapp'd Of old renown, thy mind survey'd the scenes Delighted where the first of men Once dwelt, familiar: Scipio, virtuous chief, Stern Cato, and the patriot mind Of faithful Brutus, best philosopher.

Well did the gen'rous search employ Thy blooming years by virtue crown'd, though

death

Unseen oppress'd thee, far from home,
A helpless stranger. No familiar voice,
No pitying eye cheer'd thy last pangs.
O worthy longest days! for thee shall flow
The pious solitary tear,

And thoughtful friendship sadden o'er thine

urn.

$186. The Brewer's Coachman. TAYLOR. HONEST William, an easy and good-natur'd fellow,

Would a little too oft get a little too mellow. Body coachman was he to an eminent brewer No better e'er sat on a box to be sure.

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nurses

His coach was kept clean, and no mothers or [his horses. Took that care of their babes that he took of He had these-aye, and fifty good qualities more, [o'er. But the business of tippling could ne'er be got So his master effectually mended the matter, By hiring a man who drank nothing but water. Now, William, says he, you see the plain case; Had you drank as he does, you had kept a good place. [done so,

Drink water! quoth William-had all men You'd never have wanted a coachman, I trow. They're soakers, like me, whom you load with reproaches, [coaches. That enable you brewers to ride in your

§ 187. Ode on the Death of Matzel, a favorite Bullfinch. Addressed to Philip Stanhope, Esq. (natural Son of the Earl of Chesterfield) to whom the Author had given the Reversion of it when he left Dresden. WILLIAMS.

TRY not, my Stanhope, 'tis in vain,
To stop your tears, or hide your pain,
Or check your honest rage:
Give sorrow and revenge their scope,
My present joy, your future hope,
Lies murder'd in his cage.
Matzel's no more! Ye graces, loves,
Ye linnets, nightingales, and doves,
Attend th' untimely bier;

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Let every sorrow be express'd,

Beat with your wings each mournful breast,
And drop the nat'ral tear.

In height of song, in beauty's pride,
By fell Grimalkin's claws he died-

But vengeance shall have way;
On pains and tortures I'll refine;
Yet, Matzel, that one death of thine
His nine will ill repay.

For thee, my bird, the sacred Nine,
Who lov'd thy tuneful notes, shall join

In thy funereal verse:
My painful task shall be to write
Th' eternal dirge which they indite,
And hang it on thy hearse.
In vain I lov'd, in vain I mourn
My bird, who never to return
Is fled to happier shades,
Where Lesbia shall for him prepare
The place most charming and most fair,
Of all th' Elysian glades.

There shall thy notes in cypress grove
Soothe wretched ghosts that died for love;
There shall thy plaintive strain
Lull impious Phædra's endless grief,
To Procris yield some short relief,

And soften Dido's pain:

Till Proserpine by chance shall hear
Thy notes, and make thee all her care,
And love thee with my love;
While each attendant soul shall praise
The matchless Matzel's tuneful lays,
And all his songs approve.